


Billet-doux

by InvincibleRodent



Series: Raymond Trevelyan [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Established Relationship, Love Letters, M/M, Post-Game(s), Pre-Trespasser, Purple Prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 01:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5564461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvincibleRodent/pseuds/InvincibleRodent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Trevelyan misses his sweetheart. Dorian appreciates an occasional naughty letter. Even if the servants steal it and read it to the kitchen staff.</p>
<p>(Totally self-indulgent. Gratuitous dirty talk lots of pining from an Inquisitor balls deep in love.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Billet-doux

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at forging the letter that may have preceded the one received from the romanced Dorian in the beginning of Trespasser, in the codex entry "Dorian and the last few years". :) You be the judge how good my son is at dirty talk.
> 
> ((note: while Dorian seems unconcerned with the fact that the Inquisitor’s letters may be intercepted, I tried not to say anything specific- C., J., and L. are rudimentary code-names for Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana.))

Treasure,

How’ve the past few weeks been treating you? I have not yet received my weekly list of critiques, complaints, and annoyances- as much as I miss it, I shall take that as a sign of things going well. Pray tell, how much longer until you shake your dear homeland out of her hinges and return to me?

Once we meet again, you must tell me everything- the path of your hand, while equally lovely, is but a cheap substitute for the velvet of your voice.

Oh, how I miss your voice.

But, one learns to make do with a memory. That seems to be the theme of my letters as of late- as the days stretch on, the more and more I have to rely on my memories of you.

My love, it has almost been a month since I have last held your gaze. Since I’ve last held you. It seems absurd, does it not? It’s as if it had been just yesterday that we said our goodbyes, kissed each other farewell, and I watched the ship sink under the horizon, taking you with it.

While I have always been fond of poetry, you’ll no doubt note I’m shit at it- it is you who scratches the words from underneath my skin.

It’s as if it had been yesterday that I traced each plane and gorgeous curve of your body, committing all the shapes, the scents, the sights to memory before I would let you slip from my grasp yet again, my elusive sweetheart.

Maker, do I miss you. More than I thought possible. Can you believe that? With each journey you take, I miss you more. Your heat, your kiss, your touch; your tender whispers in the dead of the night, and the way that sizzling promise, _amatus,_ falls from your lips.

Maker, your lips.

I might just miss your lips the most. That perfect bow of your lips. The way they twist into that wicked smile that crinkles your eyes, their softness against my skin, the burning tracks they draw down my throat, my chest, my cock, until I’m keening for you. Until I’m coming apart at the seams, under your touch.

The way your lips curl around the syllables as you murmur your burning words in my ear, it drives me mad. Your absence drives me mad. Beloved, knowing you so far out of my reach plagues my every waking hour.

Do imagine, the other day I had to leave the war room and take a breather, just to calm the fire coursing my veins. To rid myself of my desire for you, for just a moment. Maker, if I were to tell you what filthy, depraved, _obscene_ things I want to do to you, _with_ you, I might even draw a blush onto your cheeks. (Do tell me if I did. Even though seeing it would be leagues better, just the knowledge that I did would make my day.)

Had I only had the chance to hold you then. To strip you of all those pesky clothes, to tear them from your form and _take_ you, against the wall, on top of the desk… Or perhaps you would prefer to have me there instead? Bent over, spread out, moaning like a bitch in heat, begging you to fuck me? Darling, I would. I would beg and plead and pray for you, profane anything I hold holy, just to feel you in me again. You could always make me squirm with barely a brush of your fingers.

I assume it is needless to say, under the veil of darkness, my hands do wander as I try to recall the feel of you, the patterns your hands have carved into my skin. Every night I spend in the arms of my phantom lover, my demon of desire, no- sweeter than that, the marvelous seraph the Maker had seen fit to gift to me, a cheap imitation of you, only for him to slip from me every time I open my eyes… And each time I awaken, the bed, that damn bed, is empty. It is empty, cold, devoid of your warmth by my side, and it is killing me, it is poison.

A damn cruel game the Fade is playing on me, don’t you agree? Dangling you on a string in front of my nose, only to yank you away as I would reach for you.

But, enough of that. Just listen to me prattle on like some lovelorn maiden- granted, I am little more. I am but a man, after all. Mighty and powerful as I am seen by day, by night, I am no more than any man aching to hold his love.

Maker knows what you must think of me, bemoaning your absence after barely a month, as one would that of the departed. Writing wanton words, carelessly, without regard for whose eyes may be lain upon them. But Maker, if only you knew how I ache for you. How I crave you close.

On the day we see each other again, may I request that you wear those smalls we got you from Val Royeaux? I have yet to experience the pleasure of peeling such fine silk off you- perhaps that naughty little secret of ours would make our reunion all the sweeter. Imagine that, exchanging pleasantries with lords and ladies and their assorted majesties, knowing that under your impeccably fashionable robes, there is but a scrap of flimsy fabric keeping you decent. Andraste’s pyre, but the thought is enough to set fire to my blood.

Tearing them off you and driving my tongue into you would be a delight like no other.

I won’t bid you farewell again, Treasure. Not this time. C., J., and I shall embark on our journey to the meeting point in the morrow- knowing that with each step, I shall be closer to seeing you again sends my heart aflutter.  
So I won’t bid you farewell.

Until we see each other again.

Yours, always yours, fervently yours,  
R.

PS: I have never thought that once I would be _grateful_ to know L. is no longer my spymaster. Maker, imagine that. She would never stop teasing me with this letter, if it ever were to go through her hands.

Although, you know the saying- don’t paint the she-demon on the walls, for she may yet appear.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [a tumblr](http://www.weresquirrel.tumblr.com) , in case anyone is interested! :) Prompts and feedback are always welcome! <3


End file.
